


The Portmanteau of Snake Cuddling is Snuggling

by SleepySelfLoathing



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Crowley is very mean to his plants and very sweet to his husband, Established Relationship, Other, Shh that's a spoiler, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), but also Snake Aziraphale?, minor hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:26:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24239509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepySelfLoathing/pseuds/SleepySelfLoathing
Summary: Crowley has a fantasy, one he's been nursing for millennia. It might sound stupid, but he wants Aziraphale and him to transform into snakes and cuddle together.But that's ridiculous, because it's not like that would ever happen, right?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 103
Kudos: 439
Collections: Asexual Good Omens, Aspec-friendly Good Omens, The Snake Pit





	1. Garter Snake? No, I’m a Garden Snake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's well established that a lot of us enjoy snake Crowley, so what if we extend that even further and threw in some snake Aziraphale as well? You double the snakes, you double the fun. That's how math works, right?
> 
> ...I actually don't know how math works at all. Enjoy the fic!

Crowley slams open the back door so hard the windows along the cottage wall rattle. He glowers at the vegetable beds beyond the porch, baring his fangs while letting out a loud, seething hiss.

“Are you miserable sods ready for inspection?”

And the whole yard is alive with the movement of panicking greenery.

One of the best things about living in the countryside is the garden. Unfettered by the concrete walls of his flat, Crowley is free to extend his plant-based reign of terror over the whole yard, with every flower, bush, and vine brought under his despotic rule.

Soil pH be damned, Crowley expects these plants to grow better than any he’s ever owned before. If anything disappoints him, he can take a stroll over to the chalky cliffs and have a right fun time chucking vegetation off the edge.

It goes without saying that the garden has been blooming gloriously.

And today is the perfect day to head out and make sure his plants keep up the effort.

Crowley saunters off the porch in a threatening sort of way and leans over the cabbage patch, leering down at the trembling vegetables below.

“I’m not going to see any bug bites, am I?” he says, and the cabbages shrink into the soil. Luckily for them, Crowley’s expert eyes can’t see any flaws, so, after a cursory once over, he turns away to look after the carrots, adjusting his hat to block out the sunshine as he goes.

It’s bright out in the way that most English days aren’t. It’s the kind of weather where the sun’s heat is only offset by the salt-tinged breeze coming off the sea, and though there are clouds out, they’re white, puffy, and safely off in the distance.

Also, Aziraphale’s gone out for a book auction at the next village over, which means Crowley is free to scream at his plants as loud as he wants _and_ pilfer his husband’s favourite sunhat. It’s the straw one that Aziraphale wears when he’s rambling around the countryside pretending to be a Romantic poet or Beatrix Potter or something like that.

The hat might not really match Crowley’s style, but he figures the fact that he’s stealing it cancels out the clash between the blue polka-dotted ribbon and Crowley’s all-black gardening togs.

Besides, he might be a demon, but he’s also a ginger. He sunburns easily.

The carrots are passable, as are the rest of the vegetables, but that’s to be expected. They’re hardier than some of the other plants, and if Crowley’s going to get any real gardening done he should grab some tools before continuing.

New goal in mind, he starts making his way towards the shed at the back, then pauses, examining the trees by the low stone wall. Most of them are fruiting out of season as instructed, but there are a few slackers who aren’t keeping up with the program. And they need to get with the program, because Crowley wants those fruits to look more tantalising than an angel eating chocolatine.

He knows that the neighbouring kids like to steal the fruit, which is just fantastic, fills Crowley right to the brim with demonic glee, really. It’s never too early to start teaching children that property laws should always be ignored, as Crowley likes to say (loudly and in the presence of authority figures).

And maybe it’s just a bit nostalgic, seeing those kids look at something they know is forbidden and choosing to reach out for it anyway.

Crowley leans in close to one of the lazier pear trees, whispering in an intimate, ominous tone. “If you want your bark to stay on your lousy wood, then I expect _results_.” He leans back, shouting at the rest of the grove. “And don’t you lot think you’re exempt from this! I’m not above turning you all into kindling!”

The breeze can’t be blamed for the shaking leaves. Several new blossoms sprout on previously bare branches as Crowley turns around and continues his grim march through the garden.

The peonies and marigolds shudder as he stalks past, the violets flinch as he grabs the watering can, and as he inspects the petunias their stomata start opening and closing in what Crowley can only assume is panic.

It’s a good day for gardening, and Crowley loses himself in the routine of shouting and tending to his plants.

He’s on his knees now, snipping the gardening shears menacingly at his flowers. The mossy stretch between the lavender and tulips is sheltered from the breeze, and Aziraphale’s hat might keep the sun off his face but it doesn’t stop the heat from soaking into Crowley’s skin.

He yawns…

And shakes himself. He’s still got to put the hedge in its place and re-pot the sansevieria. There’ll be plenty of time for napping later, preferably when Aziraphale’s home and willing to act as his pillow.

Still, without the motion of the wind the heavy heat of the sun seeps into Crowley’s body, makes his serpent bits long to uncoil and bask. And it’s not like the plants would dare to judge him for resting, and the weather really is perfect for a snooze...

Surely a little nap wouldn’t hurt.

He glares one last time at the lavender, opening the gardening shears wide and stabbing them into the ground by their stems. That should keep them on edge for the time being, stop them from slacking off while Crowley slacks off himself.

He slowly lays down on the moss, shifting his hat until it’s covering his face. But once he’s fully reclined, he can’t stop wriggling, trying to find a spot where he can stretch out properly without bumping his legs up against a pile of dirt.

Then he realises that he’s an idiot. He doesn’t need to worry about where his legs go if he doesn’t have legs in the first place.

Crowley sets Aziraphale’s hat off to the side. It’ll make the perfect shelter from the direct sunlight once he’s in a smaller shape.

And then he changes.

Sometimes he’s disturbed at how easy it is to let go of his limbs, his legs fusing and his arms disappearing into his sides, replaced by the smoothness of scales and a whole lot more vertebrae.

But the sun is warm, and there’s no room to be upset in a snake’s body.

So Crowley curls his newly elongated form in a tidy loop, pushing his head under the straw hat. The sunlight peeks through the tiny holes in the wicker, speckling bright spots along his scales like miniature, symmetrical constellations.

Crowley brings more of himself under the hat, tucking his head under his stomach, and takes a tiny, hissing breath in…

And out… and in… and…

…

…

…

There’s a sound somewhere.

A familiar sound that carries over the foliage and follows the sea breeze. Crowley’s dozing, fuzzy brain recognises it, acknowledges it, and starts to slip back towards the murkier side of unconsciousness.

“Dearest?”

Crowley’s body unspools further. The voice on the wind means safety, it means shared drinks at a shared table, it means a bed with too many duvets and a hot water bottle wrapped in tartan flannel.

“Crowley? Where are you?”

That’s a silly question. Crowley is nestled into the moss, laying amongst the plants he raised and hidden under the hat he stole. He knows perfectly well where he is.

“Darling? Please?”

The sound isn’t so reassuring anymore. There’s the sour taste of anxiety in the air, strong enough that the flowers don’t block it out. Crowley can feel his body waking up in response, reacting on some learned instinct.

He’s still sluggish though, and he only manages to squirm a little before –

“There you are!”

Crowley’s wicker shelter is stolen from him, and that’s the only warning he gets before he’s being grabbed at by soft, manicured hands and lifted into the air. To his credit, Crowley only flails a little bit as his body is manhandled – snakehandled? – into a position where he’s face to face with his captor.

And his captor smiles at him.

“You gave me quite a fright, dear. I was searching just about everywhere for you.” says Aziraphale.

“Thought you’d be out longer,” Crowley says, steadying himself by curling around Aziraphale’s hand, “didn’t mean to send you into a tizzy.”

“I was not in a _tizzy_ , I was simply concerned that you seemed to have disappeared from the garden,” Aziraphale says, lips curling up in a pout.

Crowley doesn’t answer, too focused on winding his body up Aziraphale’s arm and along his shoulders. Aziraphale turns his head to look at him, and Crowley flicks his tongue out, just enough to tickle Aziraphale’s cheek.

Aziraphale chuckles. “You do look very darling when you’re tiny like this, even if does make you quite difficult to find.”

“Don’t you mock me. I’m intimidating at any size.”

“Is that why you were hiding under my hat, then? So as not to traumatise the begonias?”

Crowley turns to glare at the plants in question. “As if they don’t already know that they’re headed straight to the compost heap.”

“Don’t be so cruel, dear. I’m sure they’re doing their best.”

“Could be doing better!” Crowley shouts towards his flowers, but Aziraphale is already wandering away from the terrified begonias and back towards the cottage.

“Well, I think I would do much better myself with some tea and sandwiches, but alas,” Aziraphale sighs dramatically, “I’m afraid I’m quite terrible at portioning out the fillings.”

“Angel, if you want me to make you lunch, you are _not_ going to convince me by acting all coy and helpless,” Crowley says, electing to ignore the numerous times when Aziraphale acted helpless and Crowley dropped everything to come to his aid. He likes to pretend he has some dignity.

Aziraphale lets out a huffy little breath, the kind that Crowley associates with subpar service at expensive restaurants, and Crowley reconciles himself to an afternoon of assembling cucumber sandwiches. But then Aziraphale speaks again.

“How is it, then?”

It’s the kind of non sequitur that Crowley doesn’t normally encounter outside of long drinking sessions, so he’s a little surprised to hear one now.

“How is what?”

“Being a snake,” Aziraphale says, turning to face Crowley and almost dislodging him in the process. “I assume it must have some appeal, otherwise I doubt you would transform so often. But I don’t really recall you doing it much prior to the apocalypse…”

Crowley tries to shrug without shoulders and nearly succeeds. “Well, I can’t exactly transform when I’m out in public, can I? Might get run over or hit with a broom or something. It’s far better to keep the whole thing private.”

“Hmm, I suppose that makes sense, but you still haven’t answered my question. How is it being a snake?”

Crowley tightens his coils around Aziraphale as he considers the question. It’s not exactly something he’s ever tried to put into words.

“I guess, everything’s… simpler. I mean, it’s not like transforming changes my occult essence or anything, but it’s hard to get upset about stuff when all your body wants is mice and a warm place to sleep.”

Crowley glances up at his husband’s face and is struck with one of Aziraphale’s pleased grins.

“That does sound like a rather wonderful retreat!” Aziraphale says, “I daresay having a break from your thoughts can be quite the relief at times.”

“Er, I guess.”

“Sometimes I do wish I could just ignore some of the trains of thought my mind insists on boarding,” Aziraphale says, “I must admit, I’m a bit jealous, you having the option to just turn off those diversions. I wish I could do something similar…”

And Aziraphale doesn’t know it, but that sentiment is too close, too close to something Crowley’s not ready to acknowledge yet.

This needs to stop.

Crowley slides off Aziraphale’s shoulders, dropping to the ground before he can catch him. As soon as his scales touch the floor, he’s bouncing right back up with enough momentum to nearly trip over his newly grown human legs, stopped only by Aziraphale’s outstretched arms.

“Oh, you didn’t need to turn back, dear,” Aziraphale says, pulling Crowley back to a mostly upright state, “I was perfectly happy to carry you.”

Crowley sniffs and turns on his heel. “Can’t exactly make you snacks without arms, can I?”

He hopes the promise of food is enough to distract Aziraphale. The excited little gasp Crowley hears behind him indicates his ploy was successful.

Good. It wouldn’t do to continue down the conversational path they were wandering. Crowley turns back to face Aziraphale as they reach the door, taking in his husband and garden one last time before heading inside.

“Come on, angel. Let’s go get you some tea.”

\---

See, the thing is, Crowley has a fantasy. It’s a very stupid and very silly fantasy, but he’s been cultivating it for nearly five and a half thousand years now so it’s not exactly easy to ignore, even if it does make him feel very stupid and very silly indeed.

Crowley wants Aziraphale and him to transform into snakes and cuddle.

The thought of it makes him cringe and pine in equal measures, but it’s a thought that’s been embedded in his mind for far too long. Crowley’s spent millennia wondering what Aziraphale would look like as a snake. Would he have spots or patterns? Would his scales be rough or smooth? Would his eyes be slit or round? Who knows? Crowley certainly doesn’t.

Doesn’t stop him from speculating about it though.

But whatever Aziraphale might look like as a snake, the really important part of the fantasy is the cuddling. It’s the thought of the two of them laid over and under and all around each other, tangled into gentle knots and intimate loops as they rest somewhere warm and safe.

It’s a fantasy born of cold nights in the desert, burrowed alone under the sand far from human settlement. It started as an idle wish for some company, any company, and as Crowley came to know Aziraphale, it solidified into a longing to share something only two beings with the power of transformation could.

After all, snake cuddling isn’t exactly a scenario that’s easily translated to reality.

The closest Crowley’s ever come to living out his snake snuggling dreams was during a winter spent in Narcisse. The weather was cold, which is an understatement on par with “spiking the water cooler in hell’s break room caused a minor workplace disruption,” and Crowley decided that the best way to avoid discorporation was brumation. Just his luck that he found some limestone caves already full of snakes with plenty of room for one more. He’d squirmed in among them, scales against scales, and felt warmer than he had in years.

But when spring came, Crowley was jostled awake by thousands of wriggling garter snakes fighting to the surface. Even worse, when Crowley finally managed to poke his head out of the cave, all the snakes were in the midst of a frenzied orgy, the likes of which put his memories of Rome to shame.

Needless to say, it was an unpleasant way to wake up. Crowley hasn’t set foot (or tail) in North America since.

Crowley doesn’t want a weird snake orgy. He doesn’t want anything sexual to come into it. What he wants is the feeling of Aziraphale holding him, wrapped around every last bit of his body. Human arms and legs can only go so far, and sometimes hugs don’t feel like hugs unless every vertebra in your spine is getting in on the action too.

But more than that, Crowley wants him and Aziraphale to be close, close in a way that can’t be replicated by anyone else. He wants Aziraphale to see him as he is, and not just accept him, but _join_ him. And then cuddle. The cuddling is absolutely vital here.

It’s really not the sort of fantasy demons should have, too sappy by far, but Crowley got fired from his job a while back so he’s not too fussed.

The real stumbling block in the whole scenario is Aziraphale.

Oh, Aziraphale is fine with holding Crowley while he’s a snake, that’s not the issue. In fact, on multiple occasions Aziraphale had told him that he is more than welcome to transform into something a little more limbless and sit on his lap.

Crowley could find this patronising. He chooses not to, if only because Aziraphale and the electric blanket on their bed run at about the same temperature. Also, sometimes when Crowley’s in his lap Aziraphale will start reading aloud, and he even does different voices for each character, and he’s so, so bad at it that Crowley always starts laughing and –

Crowley’s getting distracted, because that’s not the point.

The point is, Aziraphale is still very much human-shaped while Crowley is very much not, and one snake does not a snake snuggle make.

It’s not that Crowley doesn’t know how to bring it up with Aziraphale either. Of course not. Don’t be absurd.

Crowley knows when to push. He knows how to introduce ideas to Aziraphale in a way that sticks in his husband’s mind, rolling suggestions towards him so that Aziraphale can see these concepts coming and get used to them by the time they reach him. Crowley’s patient, he knows how to play the long game. It took nearly five hundred years for Aziraphale to come around to the Arrangement, and the whole time, Crowley waited and pushed and waited some more, knew exactly when to back off and when to keep arguing.

This is all to say that Crowley has got some experience in this. He knows the best way to tempt Aziraphale towards just about anything, even stupid snake-filled daydreams.

But he won’t.

This isn’t a time to push. Not now. Not when Aziraphale still makes excuses for enjoying the things he likes, not when he still flicks his eyes upwards while fretting, not when Crowley still finds him gazing into the distance, eyes unfocused and glassy.

Aziraphale’s adjusting to life without heaven. If Crowley had to guess, he’ll probably be adjusting to life without heaven for quite some time. Aziraphale’s already pushed himself plenty, what with defecting from his former side, stopping armageddon, marrying Crowley, and moving to a small cottage in East Sussex.

So no, Aziraphale’s done enough pushing. They came here to rest and Crowley’s not going to start agitating for something different, demanding something that Aziraphale will feel obligated go through with even if he doesn’t really want to.

Besides, Crowley already has everything he could ever want already.

Well, everything except for the snake cuddling, but that’s just a silly fantasy. Crowley accepted that a long time ago. He’s made his peace with it.

He has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being much longer than I initially intended (by that I mean it's the longest piece of writing I've ever done), so I'll be splitting it up into chapters. Stay tuned for the second part, which involves brooding, arguments, and nature documentaries.


	2. Late Night Dreams and Nature Documentaries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inspiration for this chapter comes from the many weird snake videos I have watched at three in the morning. Shout out to that one about rattlesnakes fighting over who's the tallest.

Crowley wakes with a jolt, coming to consciousness in much the same way a car comes into contact with a brick wall. He knows something is wrong, something is terribly wrong, but he can’t identify what it is that’s causing shivers all along his weirdly formatted bones.

He immediately turns to his right, looking for Aziraphale –

And Aziraphale is there, sitting up and reading, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating his profile. He’s resting in the exact same spot he was in when Crowley fell asleep, safe in their shared bed.

Crowley’s relief is quickly replaced with confusion.

Now that he’s more awake, he can recognise the strain of alarm lighting up his brain, and it feels exactly like the “Aziraphale’s in trouble” alert that Crowley has honed over millennia. But Aziraphale’s fine. He’s right next to Crowley, and Crowley can’t see or sense anything out of the ordinary in their bedroom.

Maybe it was just a lingering nightmare?

That’s the most reasonable assumption. And even if Crowley can’t necessarily remember what he was dreaming about, he is well aware that the best remedy for night terrors is a strong dose of angelic fussing with side of head scritches.

Plan established, Crowley wriggles over to Aziraphale’s side of the bed, fully intending to burrow into his husband’s thigh.

And is met with tense, unyielding muscles.

Crowley pulls back, tipping his head up to really _look_ at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is staring at the space beyond their bed. A book rests in his lap, open, and with two of his fingers curled around the edge of the page. He’s far too still, and it takes Crowley a moment to realise that Aziraphale isn’t even pretending to breathe.

Ah.

“Angel?” Crowley asks, keeping his voice quiet.

Aziraphale doesn’t respond.

Crowley does not panic. He is extremely calm as he sits up. He’s totally unbothered as he waves his hand in front of Aziraphale’s eyes. His composure would make a Victorian schoolteacher applaud as he gently pries the book out of Aziraphale’s hands and places it on the bedside table.

Aziraphale doesn’t react to any of this. 

Crowley does not panic.

What he does is rest a hand against Aziraphale’s shoulder and gently, lightly shake him.

And then there are feathers in Crowley’s face, feathers everywhere, and they’re shoving him backwards and away, off the edge of the bed and onto the floor in a pile of blankets and confusion.

“Oh dear! I’m so sorry! Are you alright? I didn’t mean to do that, it was entirely involuntary. But I suppose that’s a sorry excuse when you’re on the floor like that –”

Aziraphale’s rambling, he’s rambling and fretting and leaning over the side of the bed, wings outstretched and eyes wide. In any other context, Crowley might laugh at the absurd position the two of them are in, Crowley on his back with one leg still in the bed, Aziraphale above him with the panicked expression of someone who just committed manslaughter.

But Crowley does not laugh. He keeps his face neutral as he sits up and snaps the sheets back on the bed.

“It’s fine, angel. No harm done. Just startled me, is all.” Crowley stands and pulls back the covers. “Still need you to budge over though.”

Aziraphale smiles, the skin around his mouth tight, and folds his wings away as he shifts over to make space for Crowley. Crowley ignores this space and opts instead to flop half of his body on top of his husband, wrapping his arms around him for good measure.

Crowley isn’t just curling himself around Aziraphale because he’s worried. No, he’s got a much more devious plot in motion, one that involves pining Aziraphale down and forcing him to tell Crowley what on earth is going on.

So Crowley does what he does best. He rests his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and he tempts.

“Don’t know why you felt the need to pull your wings out. Two in the morning seems a weird time to start preening.”

Aziraphale scoffs. “I can assure you it was entirely accidental. I was merely surprised.”

“Huh, guess that book must’ve been something spooky to make you so flighty,” Crowley says, voice as innocent as it can get without raising suspicion, “thought you were holding off on the horror novels after the Clive Barker incident.”

He can feel Aziraphale shake his head. “No, no, it wasn’t the book, I was just thinking about, about heaven, and some of the… of the…”

Aziraphale’s voice trails off.

Crowley stays quiet, letting the silence to take up residence in their bedroom in the hope that Aziraphale will evict it from the premises.

Eventually, Aziraphale speaks again.

“I was reflecting on my actions over the past millennia, and I’m afraid that I’ve come to the conclusion that I am a coward of the worst kind.”

Oh no.

“No, no you’re not. Don’t be stupid,” Crowley says, accentuating his point by squeezing Aziraphale closer.

“Oh darling, but I am,” Aziraphale says, “How can you call my actions anything but cowardice when I’ve spent thousands of years lying to myself and to you about what we are, about what we’ve done, and all for the sake of some angels who clearly have never cared for me, or earth, or anything in creation other than themselves?”

“Aziraphale, if they knew what we were up to, they would have killed us. It’s not cowardice if what you’re afraid of is annihilation.”

“But that doesn’t excuse my refusal to see heaven for what it was. I… I believe on some level I was aware that it wasn’t good, that none of it was, but I still wanted them to, to,” Aziraphale’s voice cracks, “Accept me? Be better? I can’t quite pinpoint where they failed, but it’s all too clear where I did.”

Beneath him, Crowley can feel Aziraphale’s chest heave with the awful beginnings of a sob. And still, he continues.

“I wish I could stop, I want to stop thinking about this. But then again, not thinking about it is what lead to that awful situation in the first place, and that just brings me back to the beginning, doesn’t it?”

Aziraphale sniffs. His breath comes out in a stuttering, clenched exhale. He brings the hand not pinned by Crowley’s body up to his face and wipes at his eyes.

And lying there on top of his now-crying husband, Crowley finds that he doesn’t know what to say.

He doesn’t have a good answer for this, not for this misery and inward-facing anger. He can’t answer what it was that made heaven treat Aziraphale so abysmally, and it hurts, it aches to see Aziraphale suffer from the same thing Crowley does.

Six thousand years since Crowley fell from heaven, and he still doesn’t know what question caused him to fall.

Six thousand years of knowing Aziraphale, and he still can’t fathom why heaven hated his angel.

But asking why won’t help here, not when Aziraphale is softly weeping below him. Asking won’t fix this now.

But actions can.

So he tugs at Aziraphale’s trembling shoulders, rearranging the two of them so that Aziraphale’s back is resting against Crowley’s front. He reaches over Aziraphale’s chubby side and wraps an arm around him, drawing him as near as he can without shedding his limbs.

Aziraphale shudders, and Crowley presses a kiss into his neck before speaking.

“Angel, I’m going to ask you to listen to me and listen close. You did what you had to do to _survive_. You don’t need to be proud of that. You don’t need dignity to do that. But don’t you dare say you’re a coward, because it takes a lot of fucking courage to survive.” Crowley breathes in. “So don’t you insult my husband by calling him things he’s not.”

And Aziraphale shakes against him, gripping at Crowley’s hand with inhuman strength, dragging it up to rest against his chest, against his beating heart.

Aziraphale doesn’t say a word.

And, as the sky outside their window slowly turns from black to grey, Crowley holds Aziraphale close, as close as he can with human arms.

He hopes it’s enough.

\---

Now, Crowley might not be a professional demon anymore, but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped indulging in the odd infernal habit or two. There’s the big stuff, like disrupting the nearby village’s wifi, and the small-scale mischief, like stealing Nancy-from-down-the-road’s gardening shears.

And then there’s what he’s doing now, which is brooding.

He’s closed the drapes in his office, keeping the mid-afternoon light from ruining the ambience of the dark, bare room he’s sitting in. His feet are propped up on his desk, he’s balancing on the back two legs of his throne as he tilts backwards, and he’s even got his sunglasses on, just for that extra hint of mysterious insouciance.

Now, if he can just ignore the abba song he has stuck in his head the atmosphere would be perfect.

Still, whether he’s the dancing queen or not, Crowley can at least enjoy the melancholy mood that’s permeating the space around him. Lurking about at home was always so much nicer than lurking about in cemeteries or damp places like that.

So he sinks lower in his throne and settles in for a diabolical bout of brooding.

Or at least he does until his office door opens with the gentle force of a miracle.

“Hello there, dear. I’m not intruding on anything, I hope?” Aziraphale says. His arms are clasped behind his back and his expression is eager, all bright smiles and soft wrinkles, and he’s exuding the absolute antithesis of the mood Crowley’s been trying to cultivate this past hour.

Crowley tilts his throne back further. “What is it you want. I was brooding.”

Now, Crowley knows that Aziraphale likes to think he’s above rolling his eyes, but that doesn’t mean Crowley can’t recognise when he wants to. “Yes, yes, I’m sure it was a very engaging sulk, but I have something more exciting here.”

“I wasn’t sulking!” Crowley says, indignant.

Aziraphale gives him a significant stare. “Well, regardless of what it is you’re doing, would you like to hear what I’ve been up to?”

And Crowley can’t help it. He’s curious.

He gestures for Aziraphale to continue, and, impossibly, Aziraphale’s smile grows brighter.

“Well! I popped by the local library to place some curses on their James Patterson books, when I noticed that they have a whole selection of cinematographic shows –”

“Angel, you know that they’re called movies. I’ve heard you call them movies before –” Crowley cuts himself off, stopped by the horrifically cute pout on Aziraphale’s face.

“As I was saying, the library has a collection of _talkies_ ,” the pout turns into a smirk, “and among their ranks I discovered something I’m sure you’ll find most interesting.”

With a magician’s flourish, Aziraphale pulls his hands out from behind his back. He brandishes two films, one titled “ _The Secret Lives of Reptiles_ ” and the other “ _Superb Serpents: Fact and Fiction_ ,” and he looks, in Crowley’s opinion, much too happy about it. 

“And you took those out, did you?” Crowley says.

“Well, the only other documentary about snakes I could find was ‘ _Anacondas: The Hunt for the Blood Orchid_ ,’ which didn’t look terribly scientific, if I’m being honest.” Aziraphale looks down at the cases in his hands. “But I was hoping that I could, ah, tempt you into watching these with me?”

And then Aziraphale’s eyes go all round and sparkly, which is just unnecessary, really, because Crowley was already going to say yes, Aziraphale didn’t need to look at him like _that_.

Crowley groans, letting his throne fall back onto all four legs before standing up. “Fine, but you’re not allowed to use anything you learn here against me, alright?”

“How could you accuse me of such a thing?” Aziraphale says, “And really, I doubt we’ll be learning anything that you didn’t already know, so there’s no need to fuss.”

Well, the joke’s on Aziraphale, because the only thing Crowley knows about snakes is that before God cursed him, they all bounced around on their tails like pogo sticks and, somehow, Crowley doubts that has ever been mentioned in a nature documentary.

But whatever, potential embarrassment aside, he’s already set his mind to watching this. “Fine, let’s get it over with.”

“Oh, excellent!” Aziraphale says, “I’ve already prepared some popcorn. All you need to do is work your magic on that infernal flat-screened machine and we can begin.”

And that’s how Crowley finds himself downstairs, stripped of his sunglasses and smushed into Aziraphale’s side as the two of them watch an anaconda swallow a capybara whole. Crowley can’t tell if it’s impressive or mortifying.

“Well, that certainly is quite the display, isn’t it?” says Aziraphale, “Can you do anything like that?”

“Don’t know, never tried,” Crowley says, hoping that Aziraphale won’t continue asking questions like this. But the universe has never taken pity on Crowley before, so he really shouldn’t be surprised that Aziraphale keeps talking over the documentary.

“Ooh, that bite is rather potent. Are you venomous as well?”

And not five minutes later –

“Is it true that true that you can sense heat with your face? How does that feel?”

And then –

“Goodness! Have you ever visited those caves in Narcisse –”

“Will you stop with the blessed questions?” Crowley hisses. His face feels flushed and he’s sure he’s some embarrassing shade of red, but these questions have been worming their way under Crowley’s skin for nearly the whole run time. It’s almost like Aziraphale is trying to rile him up deliberately.

Wait…

Crowley flicks his eyes away from the screen and glances over at Aziraphale, who looks far too engrossed in the documentary to _not_ be up to something. But what is he plotting? Maybe he’ll reveal his scheme if Crowley can bait him into asking more questions.

“I saw you flip on your back like that dear little hognose just last week,” Aziraphale says, “Is it comfortable?”

Well that was easy.

“Nah. Why’re you so curious?” Crowley says, keeping his eyes on Aziraphale’s face.

“Oh, I’m not curious, per se.” Aziraphale starts fidgeting slightly. “It’s more that I’m… intrigued by this delightful film and wish to confirm the information therein.”

“No, you don’t.”

“What?”

“No you don’t. All your questions have been about me.” Crowley leans forward until his face blocks Aziraphale’s view of the television. “What is it you really want?”

Aziraphale smiles nervously and doesn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. “Why would you assume I have some ulterior motive to watch this? I can assure you I had no intentions at all, of any kind.”

“Okay, that’s a lie. Kind of rude that you’d expect me to fall for that. I’m wounded, angel.” 

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” Aziraphale huffs, “Is it so hard to believe that I merely wanted to learn more about snakes from an authoritative source?”

“Why the sudden interest?”

“Well, I am married to one for a start–”

Crowley blows a raspberry, cutting him off. “We have known each other for six thousand years and you’ve never bothered learning anything about snakes before. Why’s it so hard to tell the truth now?”

“It’s a tad embarrassing,” Aziraphale says, blushing a sweet shade of pink.

“Angel, nothing could be more embarrassing than watching that anaconda give birth ten minutes ago,” Crowley says, “Come on, you can tell me.”

Aziraphale’s blush deepens, but Crowley continues to stare, moving closer and closer, until Aziraphale sighs and starts speaking.

“This does require a little explanation, but do you remember that afternoon when I found you under my hat in the garden?” Aziraphale asks, and then doesn’t bother waiting for Crowley’s response. “Well, I got to thinking about what you told me about how it feels to be a snake, how it’s hard to feel anxious or worried when you’re shaped like that, and I wondered if, if maybe I could learn to do something… similar?”

Wait. Wait. Aziraphale can’t be asking what Crowley thinks he’s asking.

“You want me to teach you how to turn into a snake?” Crowley blurts out, mouth moving faster than his brain.

But Aziraphale is smiling, he’s nodding, and his shoulders lose the tension they’ve been carrying this whole conversation. “Yes, exactly! See, I was sure you’d catch on if we watched these documentary programs together.”

And Crowley is baffled, or maybe angry, or maybe some other emotion he can’t quite identify, because how on earth was he supposed to pick up on that?

Wait, he can just say that.

“How on earth was I supposed to pick up on that?” Crowley shouts.

“You’ve been so good at it before!” Aziraphale says, “You’ve been picking up on my hints for centuries, I’m sure of it. You could always tell when I wanted you to leave the bookshop.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t exactly subtle back then.” Crowley pitches his voice much higher. “‘ _Oh Crowley, would you look at the time? It’s so terribly, dreadfully late, absolutely no-one’s out at this hour, surely you must be so tired_.’”

“I do not sound like that!”

“Yes you do, and more importantly, that was then. This is now. You don’t need to imply you want things anymore, you can just ask.”

And it’s true, they don’t need to speak around each other like they used to, always hiding behind layers of plausible deniability. The ability to communicate plainly is their prize for botching the apocalypse.

Crowley thought they both knew this.

But Aziraphale is looking at him like he’s the idiot, so Crowley doesn’t know what to think anymore. 

“I can’t exactly say ‘oh, hello dear, would you teach me how to transform into a snake?’ now can I? It’s not the done thing,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley doesn’t screech, but it’s a near thing. “Who _cares_ if it’s not the done thing? When have the two of us ever been conventional? You could have asked that–”

“And you would have said yes?”

“Course I would have! It’s only what I’ve wanted you to ask for five thousand years.”

Aziraphale balks, eyes going wide, and Crowley realises what he’s said.

Why did he say that? Why? Why?

Behind him, Crowley can hear the documentary’s narrator describing something, and it’s loud against the heavy silence Crowley’s confession has left behind. Really, he should just leave and spare everyone here the ordeal of explaining himself.

But when he tries to lean away, he’s stopped by a hand gripping his sleeve.

And when he looks up, Aziraphale’s eyes are glittering.

“Have you really wanted to teach me this for so long?”

And Crowley has always been weak to Aziraphale’s eyes.

He breaths in. bracing himself. “Yeah,” he says, “Wanted to share it with you. Make it something just for the two of us.”

“It seems you’re something of a hypocrite, dear. You’ve not been asking for the things you want either.”

Crowley stuffs down his first impulse, which is to argue, and actually thinks about Aziraphale’s words.

“Guess we’re well suited to each other,” Crowley says.

Aziraphale chuckles. “Indeed. Two old fools being foolish together.”

And Crowley can’t help laughing too, because, really, when have the two of them ever made things easy for themselves?

Aziraphale raises his hand, cupping Crowley’s cheek, and his laughter dies off.

“Darling, would you, as one fool to another, please show me how to turn into a snake?” Aziraphale asks.

It sounds so stupid when said aloud, but Crowley doesn’t care. He snaps his fingers to shut off the documentary, stands up, and looks down at Aziraphale, smiling.

“Give me ten minutes to prepare.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why would I, a person who edits academic articles as a job, write a chapter consisting mostly of dialogue, something I have little to no experience with? I have no clue. And now I know I hate dialogue tags with a passion.


	3. Eden Reclaimed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, we reach the part of the story that was promised at the beginning. This was my favourite chapter to write, so I hope you enjoy it.

Crowley asked for ten minutes, but he only needed five to get the bedroom set up. The electric blanket has been tucked under the duvet, the window’s just open enough to catch the breeze, and the room’s humidity is miraculously the same as a zoo terrarium.

Is Crowley anxious? Nah, no, absolutely not. He’s only about to have a millennia-old daydream become reality, why would that be nerve-wracking in the slightest?

Okay, maybe he’s a bit anxious.

How is he even going to teach Aziraphale how to turn into a snake? He’s not a serpent at his core so he probably can’t change the same way Crowley does, and Aziraphale usually doesn’t bother modifying his corporation at all under normal circumstances.

It occurs to Crowley that none of his fantasies have ever detailed any of the practical aspects of snake snuggling. In retrospect, that’s a massive failing on his part.

He’s interrupted by a polite cough coming from the doorway.

“Um, are you ready, dear?”

Looks like Crowley wasted his five minutes.

Woops.

He swivels around, trying and failing not to wish he had his sunglasses, and pulls on a layer of nonchalance that hopefully covers up any residual nervousness. This attempt at composure is immediately wrecked by the sight of Aziraphale, sans waistcoat and bowtie, standing there with his sleeves rolled up.

“Where’s your…” Crowley gestures vaguely at the entire top half of Aziraphale’s body.

“Oh, I was concerned the fabric might not stand up to the rigours of transformation. Didn’t want to stress the old seams and all that.”

“Probably for the best. Wouldn’t want you throwing a fit about your clothes when you’ve got a set of poisonous fangs,” Crowley says, and before Aziraphale can slide in another retort he sits on the bed, patting the space next to him. “Come here.”

And Aziraphale does, seating himself with his usual prim posture at the edge of the bed. That’s the first thing that needs to change.

“Angel, you’re not going to transform when your back’s like that. Try slumping.”

“Very well. I suppose everything needs to be a little loosey-goosey if I’m to be a snake.”

“Loosey-goosey?” Crowley mutters under his breath, but is then distracted by Aziraphale’s horrible attempt at a slouch. Crowley doesn’t laugh because he is a millennia-old being of cosmic power, but he does make a squawking sort of cough as Aziraphale does his best impression of the lovechild of the hunchback of Notre Dame and a Galapagos tortoise.

“Angel, angel,” Crowley says, trying not to wheeze, “that’s not… let’s try something different.”

“Perhaps I should lie down?” Aziraphale asks.

“Yeah, let’s go with that.”

Aziraphale shuffles further onto the bed, reclining in a way that looks way more conformable than his previous position. He looks up at Crowley with a nervous sort of grin.

“What’s the next step?”

And Crowley really hopes that he can come up with something quick, because he has absolutely no clue what comes next. It’s not like he can describe how it feels to have two physical bodies existing in one space, stuck overlapping in a way that makes it easy to change between them.

Wait. That’s not a bad idea.

“Okay, remember when you borrowed my corporation?” Crowley says.

“Yes?”

“Do you remember how it felt to be in my body? The way my hips work, the slippery feeling in my shoulders, those were all my snake bits trying poke through. Think you could try and replicate that in your body?”

“I can certainly make a good attempt,” Aziraphale says, closing his eyes. “But while I’m working at this, do you think you could turn away, dear? Just for a moment. I’m feeling a touch shy about this whole affair.”

“Sure. Whatever works for you.” Crowley turns around, staring at the tapestry on their bedroom wall.

“Thank you. Do you have any other advice for me?”

“You just got to give up on the whole spine,” Crowley says, “Don’t bother attaching it to anything except the skull.”

“And I assume the legs are a lost cause.”

“Yup. See, you’re already learning.”

Then Aziraphale falls silent. The weight on the bed shifts around, moving in restless fits and starts, but without looking, Crowley has no way of telling what’s going on.

So Crowley waits.

He’s about to start offering unsolicited advice when a muted pop sounds out behind him. He doesn’t turn around, but it’s tempting, so very tempting to see just what happened.

“You can look back now, dear.”

The sentence isn’t complete before Crowley is turning, eager in a way he hasn’t been in centuries.

And when he sees his husband, Crowley is stuck dumb like a prophet before God.

Aziraphale’s long body takes up all the space on the bed, piling up in twisting pale ropes along the sheets, and it seems that the weight that he carries on his human body has transferred to this new shape, because width-wise Aziraphale’s snaky form is nearly as thick as Crowley’s non-snaky waist. His scales are light and creamy, and, against all reason and taste, the beige spots all along his torso are shaped like bow ties.

Aziraphale blinks up at Crowley with eyelids he’s not supposed to have. He sticks his forked tongue out, wiggles it around, and speaks.

“Did… did I do it right?”

A disgusting, sentimental noise rises from the back of Crowley’s throat. He can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed by it. Instead, he reaches down to gently cup Aziraphale’s head in his hands.

“Angel, you’re _gorgeous_.”

“Well, that’s quite flattering of you, dear.” Aziraphale’s whole body gives a delightfully endearing wriggle. “I must say, that feels remarkably different. Er, how many vertebrae am I supposed to have again?”

“No clue,” Crowley says, his cheeks starting to ache from smiling. He’s too busy visually feasting on his husband’s new form to pay attention to anything else. Aziraphale’s face is so different, diamond-shaped and flat, but his eyes haven’t changed at all, still with the same round pupils circled by the same mutable colours.

Crowley loves him so desperately.

“You’re gorgeous,” Crowley repeats. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“And you smell like cinnamon,” says Aziraphale, sticking his tongue out again. “It’s quite strange smelling like that, I must say, but more to the point,” Aziraphale drags a heavy coil to rest against Crowley’s thigh, “will you be joining me?”

Crowley doesn’t need to be asked twice. He’s losing his arms, blending his legs, growing scales all over himself, and it’s so easy, it’s easier than it’s ever been.

And when he’s done, Aziraphale clumsily pushes his snout against Crowley’s.

“Oh dear, I suppose I can’t kiss you like this,” Aziraphale says.

“Sssure you can, just need to get a bit creative,” Crowley says, and flicks his tongue out just enough that it tickles the tip of Aziraphale’s nose.

Aziraphale laughs and Crowley is so distracted by it that he doesn’t notice his body slowly falling off the edge of the bed until he hits the floor. It’s not that surprising. The bed’s really not big enough for two snakes as long as they are, but Crowley sees that less as a problem and more as an invitation to move closer.

It’s time to act out a millennia’s worth of daydreams.

Crowley squirms himself back onto the bed, bypassing Aziraphale’s head and slithering over the loops of his husband’s body. Aziraphale is spread out in a tangling mess across the sheets, his form a series of lines and knots, and Crowley presses his face into the space between coils.

Even covered in scales, Aziraphale’s body is impossibly soft.

“What are you up to back there?” Aziraphale asks.

“Exploring.” Crowley tries to push his head under Aziraphale’s scutes, but either his snout is too big or Aziraphale’s body is too heavy because he only manages to get his nose stuck.

Suddenly, the scutes lift and Crowley is able to squirm underneath. When he pokes his head out the other side, Aziraphale has curled around to face him, looking as amused as a snake can be. 

“I have you trapped, wicked devil,” Aziraphale says, “and I shan’t let you go.”

Crowley twists, wriggling forward. “If you say ‘shan’t’ again I’m leaving whether you want me to or not.”

“Oh darling, I was only teasing.” Aziraphale’s raises his body some more and Crowley uses the opportunity to slide under. Once most of his neck is on the other side, he rises up to try and find his bearings.

“Which way is your head?”

“I believe it’s to your right,” Aziraphale says, “I’ve noticed my spots seem to get darker towards my tail, so you can use those to navigate.”

“Right. See you in a moment.”

Crowley flops back down and begins his odyssey along the curves of Aziraphale’s body, dragging himself parallel against his husband’s side as he winds his way forward. The sensation of scales rubbing against scales is more calming than he’d anticipated, and Crowley lets himself bask in the feeling.

Somewhere further back, he’s still caught under one of Aziraphale’s coils. He wonders if, once they’re both aligned, Aziraphale would be amenable to wrapping around the rest of him.

Inspired, Crowley tries to move faster, reaching, climbing closer towards his goal. He slips along, hurrying through the maze of his husband’s form, thwarted by the smooth turns and elated by the gentle laughs he can hear somewhere beyond the coils.

And finally, he arrives at Aziraphale’s head.

“Miss me, angel?”

“Hardly. You seemed rather intent on making yourself known on your little escapade,” Aziraphale says as he twists to face Crowley.

“Wasn’t a bother, was I?”

“No, no, not at all,” Aziraphale says, “It was a very different sort of experience, but one I’m not at all adverse to.”

And Crowley can recognise an opening when he sees one.

“Would you be ‘adverse’ to getting a bit closer?”

Aziraphale pulls back, looking over the twisted mess of scales that comprises their bodies. “Is that even possible? We’re quite tangled as is.”

“Well, someone isn’t using their imagination. Try to pull yourself into a circle and see what happens.”

“Alright, dear,” Aziraphale says. Crowley can feel the muscles flex along his flanks, slowly moving his heavy bulk into a different position. Crowley, still trapped along Aziraphale’s body in numerous spots, gets dragged along, squished into the sheets, sliding off Aziraphale’s back and revelling in the feeling of closeness.

And once Aziraphale has curled up in a very generous approximation of a circle, Crowley begins his chase anew.

He slithers over Aziraphale’s back, nudges under his belly, twists their bodies together until they’re doing a nine-metre imitation of a caduceus. He aligns every part of them into a single, unbroken shape, so tied up in each other that it’s impossible to see where one starts and the other ends.

It’s also surprisingly cosy.

Once they’ve both shifted and contracted themselves into their new position, Crowley flicks out his tongue against Aziraphale’s cheek.

“Comfortable?”

“Oh, very much so, darling. I’m not sure if it’s the new form or the blanket’s heat,” Aziraphale says, “or the charming company, but you were right about things being simpler in a body like this.”

Crowley lets out a pleased little hiss and drags his chin along Aziraphale’s head. Snakes can’t smile, they aren’t built for it, but the sheer contentment Aziraphale is radiating feels warmer than any fireplace.

“And what about you?” Aziraphale asks.

“Hmm?”

“Are you enjoying yourself as well?”

“More than you can know, angel,” Crowley says, rubbing his face against Aziraphale’s.

“Well, aren’t you an easy one to please,” Aziraphale chuckles, “All I’ve had to do is lie here.”

“Lying down is part of the appeal. Now that you’re in my _wicked clutches_ –” Crowley squeezes Aziraphale closer. “– the two of us are going to _nap_.”

“Oh, how awful!” Even as a snake, Aziraphale still has the affectations of a nineteenth-century ingenue. “Whatever shall I do in the face of such a nefarious scheme?”

“Submit?” Crowley says hopefully.

“I suppose I have no other choice,” Aziraphale says, sighing a very melodramatic sigh indeed. He then promptly flops his head down on the duvet and closes his eyes. Crowley, who does not have eyelids because he’s a real snake, tucks his snout under Aziraphale’s chin to block out the light from the window.

And like Aziraphale said, maybe it’s because he’s in a snake’s body, maybe it’s the toasty warmth of the duvet, or maybe it’s that he’s coiled every part of himself around his husband, but Crowley feels calmer than he has in years.

Along every scale, suffused throughout his body, Crowley is struck with a sense of peace.

He hopes Aziraphale can feel it too.

Crowley breathes in and out in tiny hissing breaths, feeling their echo in the rise and fall of the body next to him.

And so Crowley drifts towards sleep, letting the hours leave the two of them behind as the afternoon stretches into a hazy infinity. 

…

…

…

There’s a movement to his right, a whisper of motion that drags Crowley out of the misty haze of unconsciousness.

“Dearest?”

There’s a touch against his face, something that isn’t shaped like a hand, isn’t shaped like lips, something scaly.

“Darling, I do believe it’s time to get up.”

Crowley’s vision is blurry, but he’s pretty sure that he’s still asleep, no matter what the voice talking to him says. He tries to tuck his head under his neck to hide from wakefulness. 

“Crowley, I’m hungry.”

Crowley snaps awake, his eyes focusing so fast it’s dizzying. Clearly, the Pavlovian response he’s developed to Aziraphale’s requests for food has activated with a vengeance.

“Are you properly awake this time?” Aziraphale says, “I swear, trying to rouse you is an exercise in futility.”

Crowley glances over at his husband, and to his surprise Aziraphale is still a snake. Crowley would have assumed he’d have turned back by now, and he’s touched to realise that Aziraphale stayed with him the whole time they were napping.

Still, if Aziraphale wants dinner then the two of them are going to need to change into something with limbs.

Crowley yawns. “Fine. What’re you feeling for supper, then?”

“You know, I’m not quite sure,” Aziraphale says, tilting his head. “I think this body might have some different ideas about makes for a proper meal.”

“Well, there’s an easy solution to that.”

And Crowley changes.

He lets his limbs bleed back into existence slowly, growing into the spaces between Aziraphale’s heavy coils in a way that leaves the two of them tangled but one of them with legs.

“I don’t think I said it before, but you are a bloody massive snake,” Crowley says.

“I will graciously choose to take that as a compliment,” Aziraphale says, slowly unwrapping himself from Crowley’s body and piling in his lap. Crowley helps by falling backwards onto the sheets and trapping half of Aziraphale under him.

But then Aziraphale’s snout is on Crowley’s chest, eyes wide and worried.

“Um, Crowley, how do I turn back? I’m not quite sure I know how.”

“Used to be worried about that myself back in the early days, but there’s a trick to it,” Crowley says, grinning at the snake on top of him. “I can show you how.”

“Excellent. I put myself in your capable hands.”

Crowley smile broadens. “Well, since you brought it up, let’s start with hands. I want you to close your eyes, angel, and listen to me.”

Crowley’s voice lowers, sinking into the deeper tones of temptation. He drags his fingers along the side of Aziraphale’s body, moving back and forth in a steady rhythm along his soft scales.

“Do you remember the other day, when you spent the whole afternoon in the library? What was it that had you so entranced?”

“I was reading Jane Eyre…” Aziraphale says.

“Do you remember the feel of it under your fingers? I know that copy is old, and the pages must have felt so brittle, so delicate and thin, like the skeleton of leaves. Not at all like the rough outside. Did you run your fingers along the cloth of the spine? Did you trace the snags in the fabric of the cover?”

Crowley closes his eyes. It’s easier to immerse himself in the temptation if he imagines it alongside Aziraphale. “You can feel it now, can’t you? The subtle heft of it, the smooth edge of the pages, all there in your hands…”

And then the weight on Crowley’s chest shifts. It shifts from scaly, heavy lines to the soft press of a plump, human-shaped torso, one that Crowley knows all too well. 

He opens his eyes, and Aziraphale gazes down at him.

“There you are.” Crowley says.

“Here I am.” Aziraphale beams.

“You got that down fast. Guess you couldn’t resist your precious books.”

“More like I couldn’t resist your wiles, you tempting thing, you.”

“Flatterer,” Crowley says, resting a hand against Aziraphale’s face.

“Hmm, it’s not flattery if it’s true.” Aziraphale leans into Crowley’s palm. “And before we head downstairs, I do have a question for you.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

“Let me be frank and say that this afternoon was delightful, it was such a reprieve to simply lie back and rest without my mind interrupting. I feel much more myself, much more confident about facing all those questions when I know there’s a safe haven for me, here with you.” Aziraphale gazes at Crowley with soft attention. “This is all to say, do you think that we could do this again?”

And Crowley smiles. He grins, he beams, or whatever the word is for the brilliant thing he can feel spreading across his face. In all his millennia of daydreaming, in the thousands of years spent wondering if Aziraphale would like turning into a snake, would appreciate holding Crowley like this, nothing could have prepared him for the simple joy of Aziraphale asking to do it again.

So Crowley is smiling when he says, “Next time I’ll take you out to the garden.”

And Aziraphale smiles back.

“I look forward to it, my dearest serpent.”

\---

The last cottage before the sea has the best fruit trees. Any kid with half a brain knows that, and Lizzie is sure she’s got a whole brain in her head no matter what her big sister says. So here she is, stomach empty and staring up at the big, leafy trees on the other side of an old stone wall.

Lizzie’s sister says that trees shouldn’t be growing pears right now, but clearly that’s wrong because the tree in front of Lizzie is absolutely full of them.

There’s one pear hanging just out of her reach, so, so close, but when she stretches out her hand, she can’t quite grab it. She’ll need to climb on the wall to get at the fruit, and then she’d technically be in someone else’s garden without permission…

Lizzie looks to her right, looks to her left, and listens very closely for any voices.

There are no sounds but the sea.

As quietly as she can, Lizzie clambers on top of the wall. The stones at the top are flat enough to stand on, and she leans her hand against the rough bark of the tree for balance as she reaches up, up, up –

Something moves in the garden and Lizzie nearly loses her balance. She clutches at the tree and swings her head back and forth, looking for any grownups ready to scold her.

And then she spots them.

On a big rock in the middle of the garden are two snakes.

She can tell there’s two of them because of their different colours, but they’re all twisted up in a heap, like a big pile of spaghetti without the sauce. They look big enough to swallow her whole, and Lizzie stays as still as possible. She’s never met a snake before, but if she doesn’t move, they can’t see her, right?

But then one raises its head and looks right at her. The snake’s yellow eyes meet hers, and Lizzie couldn’t move if she tried. She’s shaking, she’s shaking all over and –

Something hits her on the head. It surprises Lizzie so much she loses her grip on the tree and tumbles backwards off the garden wall. The air punches out of her and she’s left staring up at the leafy branches above.

She can’t see the snakes anymore and sits up as fast as she can. How fast can snakes move, again? Probably faster than her. Probably faster than her sister. Maybe even faster than her mum’s car.

She does spare a glance at the object that hit her, lying next to her in the grass.

It’s a pear.

Well, it’s her pear now. It’s on the other side of the wall.

Lizzie grabs her prize, scrambles to her feet, and starts running down the lane, keen to get away and even keener to tell her sister about what she saw.

Lizzie didn’t bother looking over the garden wall again, but if she had, she would have seen the yellow eyed snake lower its head to rest on the rock. She would have watched as the plump beige snake pushed its nose against its partner’s, flicking out its tongue to push against the other snake’s cheek.

If Lizzie had looked back, she would have seen two snakes in love.

And the only sound in the garden would be the wind among the flowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was really difficult for me to write. I started drafting it back in February and began writing back in March, and there were many times where I hated what I was writing and felt horribly demotivated. But I kept at it, because I wanted to create something people would find some escape in, and because I wanted to give back to this wonderful story and these wonderful characters that have been such a source of strength for me this past year. I hope I succeeded.
> 
> I want to give a very special thank you to my sister, who listened for a full hour and a half while I proof read this out loud, and to my mother, who was always the first one to read each chapter as they came out (and yes, Lizzie was named for you).
> 
> I'd also like to thank everyone who left kudos and wrote a comment. It means more than I can say that you enjoyed something that I made, and I hope you all have a wonderful day. 
> 
> Happy anniversary, and here's to another year of Good Omens!


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